


As Toilsome I Wonder'd

by convolutedConcussion



Series: Everything is Whitman and Nothing Hurts [5]
Category: X-Men (Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-02
Updated: 2012-06-02
Packaged: 2017-11-06 16:40:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/421034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/convolutedConcussion/pseuds/convolutedConcussion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>As toilsome I wander'd Virginia's woods,<br/>To the music of rustling leaves, kick'd by my feet, (for 'twas<br/>autumn,)<br/>I mark'd at the foot of a tree the grave of a soldier,<br/>Mortally wounded he, and buried on the retreat, (easily all could I<br/>understand;)<br/>The halt of a mid-day hour, when up! no time to lose--yet this sign<br/>left,<br/>On a tablet scrawl'd and nail'd on the tree by the grave,<br/>Bold, cautious, true, and my loving comrade.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>Long, long I muse, then on my way go wandering;<br/>Many a changeful season to follow, and many a scene of life;<br/>Yet at times through changeful season and scene, abrupt, alone, or in<br/>the crowded street, <br/>Comes before me the unknown soldier's grave--comes the inscription<br/>rude in Virginia's woods,<br/>Bold, cautious, true, and my loving comrade. </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	As Toilsome I Wonder'd

The leaves crunch under their feet. Charles' hand is warm in his and a welcome feeling against autumnal chill. He knows the other left off his gloves just for this and maybe that's why he's grinning like an idiot. His mind still rebels at the revel in such _happiness_ \--Charles says he thinks of the sentiment with such derision and he supposes (grudgingly) that he's right--for it's a luxury he cannot afford but moments like _this_ make it quite hard to give a damn. Fingers thread through his as a voice chides, "Darling, you think too much." This brings a laugh to his lips.

"You wouldn't _know_ that if you stayed out," he answers. The response has no bite, though, and as he looks down at the other man, he knows just how little it was meant to. It should bother him that it doesn't bother him at all, Charles in his head. Still, he cannot summon the proper indignation. The telepath stops and at first he thinks there is something wrong. But he's smiling, eyes bright and happy. He realizes that he would really like to kiss the other man right now.

"Then why don't you?" he asks, smile coy and beautiful.

So he does.

The touch of their lips is brief, chaste, before he pulls away, both hands cupping that soft face. Boldly, Charles launches up onto his tip-toes. The slide of his mouth is cautious, though, questioning. A silent offering if he would but take it. He smiles and does take it. The kiss is tender, gentle, warm. Sighing, Charles settles back onto the flats of his feet and presses his hands over the other's. He says, "Your hands are cold." He pulls them away to brush his lips lightly onto his knuckles. "I love you," he whispers, not looking up as if he is afraid (afraid, of all things, foolish man) the feeling is not reciprocated.

As if he does not know what is in his lover's heart. He says it anyway. "I love you, too." Then, because this moment boarders on the maudlin and he has not changed so much, he adds, "You fool."

There is, far away and unimportant, the sound of laughter and Charles looks in that direction. From here, they can hardly see the estate. "Will you stay?" he asks suddenly. It's spoken so softly, and followed by such a look of doubt, that his heart feels as if it may break anew. He wants to answer that of course he'll stay but he finds his lips won't move quite the way they ought.

\---

His step now is silent, or nearly so, and slow. He is alone. The metal about his head makes him feel both safer and more vulnerable than ever. His mind is his own once more, yes, but aside from the unexpected unpleasantness of such emptiness there is another reason for his discomfort: It's not exactly practical when one is trying to navigate a dark wood. That is why, he tells himself, he removes the helmet. There is a tree on which, in a fit of foolish happiness, Erik had carved their initials. At this tree he stops, fingers tracing the gouged bark. It seems like another person's memory, now. 

The night sky is pitch black and the only thing that distinguishes the mansion from the heavens is the single window he can make out from here lit up. He knows that room like he knows the soft touch against the edge of his consciousness, like he knows the gentle _Erik_ that floats across his mind. "Stay _out_ ," he says aloud, voice heavy in the silence. There's hurt at that, just a small flash, before the sensation of the other mind against his retracts. The feeling now is akin to someone standing a comfortable--as comfortable as can be under such circumstances--distance away, perhaps to the side.

_Erik, come inside,_ the small voice pleads.

"Don't," he answers.

_Orders, orders._ It is perhaps meant as a joke but there's a hint of bitterness that's hard to ignore. _Why have you come, then? To check on me? To make sure I am alright? A bit _delayed, _don't you think, my friend?_ Reproach, now. Good, let Charles hate him. All the better. _I don't hate you. I could never.___

"I told you to stay out," he snaps.

The mental equivalent of a chuckle floats across. _You know the rules about projecting,_ is his response. _Fair game._ There is a pause. _Please just come in, love, we can--_

The helmet is cold and it's too tight on his ears. "I told you to stay out," he repeats to empty air.

\---

For a very long time, the frequency of his visits lessens. Now, hair white and face lined, he returns. The moon is full and high and he does not wear the helmet. He has nothing to fear now. He leans against the tree, eyes on the sky. None of the lights are on at this hour. He can imagine what would be said here. _Come in, Erik,_ he thinks to himself. It was the same request every time, for he would never be left to himself. "Don't," he mutters to himself. Now his mind reaches for Charles. Charles, who was so constant, of course he can't find him now.

He's not here, he can't hear him, so he says, "I love you, you fool." It all seems so petty now, so ridiculous. The one partner he had ever had who he'd seen as equal to him, and he'd spent his whole life fighting against him instead of alongside him. It's strange, he thinks with a note of regret, that Charles should have remained so true to him all those years. That he should have always offered reconciliation--at such a price, he had thought at the time, something meagre to him now--that he should have always offered him a place. Such mawkish thoughts should disgust him, should make him scoff, but he hasn't the energy for self-deception.

The crude letters are time-worn under his old fingers. It had been a childish moment, so long ago. It had pleased Charles so strangely, when they had been in love, like fucking teenagers. The old anger bubbles up but he hasn't the energy to sustain it now. With the heel of his palm, he rubs the center of his chest, pushing off and making his steady retreat. He looks back once, breathing, "Goodbye, old friend, my love."

**Author's Note:**

> The poem was As Toilsome I Wander'd by Walt Whitman. I realize that it's a bit of a stretch.
> 
> In any case, I apologize for how _bloody fucking schmaltzy_ this was.
> 
> Also, do you ever feel as if you're just writing for one person? I don't mind, please don't misunderstand me. I started this whole literary ordeal just to relieve some writer's block and help with all the feels bestowed unto me by Mr Whitman.
> 
> Basically I have no idea what I'm saying. I'm treating the notes box like a blog and yeah.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who's been reading these.


End file.
